Sunset
by therisingharvestmoon
Summary: Count Dracula rescues a young woman, because circumstances permitted, and because he is lonely. A Count D/OC two-shot.
1. Part One

Part I

Vampire's stood in this world like ancient buildings; churches and clock towers in a modern metropolis, edifices of not just one but many lives lived and gone. An ancient family rather than a race – damned individuals sworn to see everyone they love die or be killed themselves, into a world of endless night, decay and the thievery of precious life – through necessity rather than the arrogance of superiority. Living with no release from the pain of being able to die – an almost incomprehensible dichotomy – how can one exist without another?

Count Dracula was glad that his darkness had been shared with the woman who had once been his wife, and had shared a few sunsets with his children, watching from the safety of the shadowy castle that now overlooked the sleepy village of Stokely. But now they had moved on – from vampirism and from him. The taste had gone from the blood for them, but out of a sharp control rather than a faded passion. The beauty was similarly gone from his nights, with darkness now a suppressing solitude rather than a beautiful friend.

He stood perfectly still – for he was very good at that – and observed how the breeze touched his impossibly colder face. It seemed as though all he could feel nowadays was the coldness of the night and the warmth of gushing blood.

Dracula knew of dichotomy, yes. As a human, he could not fathom these totally opposing concepts existing on the same plane. How could Magda be so gorgeous, and yet so cruel? And how could his own son and heir, Vladimir Dracula, be so kind-hearted and in control of his very nature when the thirst ran so deep inside of him; the offspring of one of the most hungry vampires to stalk the Earth? How could drinking blood complete and satisfy him to the core of his very existence, yet when it stopped, it was as though his heart had been torn from him?

It came about that the Count was in this mediocre state of being more frequently now that the children had left. The Branagh's had found work south, moving into a larger house, and he was glad for them. Even the slayer had skipped town, and the Count could not blame van Helsing's offspring for wanting to escape his father's madness. Of course, he and Vladdie never had or never would have differences like that. What an ego that man had!

Dracula now stalked the nights, leaving mangled, furry messes of the local farmer's livestock, and reading in his coffin in the daylight while Renfield stood guard. He did not remember his human life before turning – there were only memories, like the ones mortals have about their infancy. He remembered a large wooden kitchen, a cold field where he used to walk, and reading. Not much else had stuck. Whatever elements had not transferred, the vampire, like the human, believed there was more to existence than simple survival.

At least old buildings were somewhat of a spectacle - something to be amazed and admired. Fear only got you so far, particularly with those you loved. He wanted respect, more than anything, but affection now and then didn't go amiss. If he did not kill, there was nothing to fear. But if he killed people (and he saw them as such, rather than peasants) then he would be driven out of the place that was now his home. He had not been this content since that large, beautiful kitchen in that distant land.

On this particular evening, there was little light from the village down below, and the moon was hidden beneath thick layers of cloud. The darkness was empty of its usual beauty, and it seemed to permeate his very being. The vampire's heart, it seemed, was not only a physical weak point – the Count sat in the dipped fork of a large maple tree that boarded the local park, as was his nightly custom. The feeble giving of the owl's lifeblood matched the equally dismal night. It almost seemed an unnecessary act, like almost everything the lonely Count did of late. He spread his arms and enveloped himself in his cloak clutching the bird's corpse to his chest, ready to take flight, when an array of hooting and cheering filled the dead night.

A group of youths were making their way along the bike track, hollering loudly and squealing. This was going to be fun, Dracula mused. Maybe he would frighten them out of their arrogance. Or he would be content to simply observe them. But as they got closer, it appeared that someone had already beaten him to it.

The squeals turned out to be shrieks coming from the smallest member of the group – a female – and these men were only young in comparison to the Count's own archaic mould. He crouched down in the fork of the branch to get a better look, setting the owl's corpse on a bed of leaves rather than dropping it at he usually would. Usually, he would have slaughtered the entire group, but he had changed. Only slightly, but he had. He would concede that much.

The young woman did not look far out of her teenage years, with soft, round features. The men were the genetic opposite – thick hairy arms and pockmarked skin, tangled black hair and in their thirties. Two of them had far too much meat, not enough vein. The third, who had probably convinced the other two lumbering oafs to assist him, was wiry looking. Probably riddled with parasites, the Count mused with disdain. He grimaced, staring from his perch at their greasy, grey necks. Perhaps some changes were for the good. Like higher standards for one thing. He watched as they got close to the tree he was perched in and pushed the woman as she stumbled on a patch of uneven ground, cracking her head against the tough trunk. The two large ones started kicked her, while the thin one slunk back to watch with a cold indifference.

The Count's bemused smirk turned into a frown as he watched them kick her in the torso and ribs, until she had only enough breath left to squeak and keep from swallowing the blood pooling in her mouth. He was less thrilled by the smell of her blood because of the brutal, unnaturalness of the attack. He killed humans and animals because he had to – they were supposed to be afraid of him. Not each other. His wiry muscles tensed under his paled skin, ready to attack – making the assailants his own victims.

Their cries were ignored by all but him, just as the young woman's had been. The first meaty quadruped had his neck broken. The second barely had time to step back in disbelief. He averted his eyes and looked up to see where the vampire had jumped from, as if denying the violent reality right in front of his eyes. His throat exposed to the chilly air, and was torn open instantly by teeth harder than ivory and sharper than razors. The youngest, thin, sick looking man stared at him in horror, anger and defiance. The Count's attractive and melancholy countenance had been replace by an animalistic snarl, as feral as the blood on his maw. The nipper had of course tried to run – he liked it when they ran.

The sheer force of the Count smacking into the man sent dirt flying into the youth's eyes and mouth. He felt a couple of ribs break with the tackle, and the knife the boy had whipped out plunged straight into the kid's left hand. He let him get a final scream in before taking the vicious pleasure in smashing his skull against a rock, until his ears were met with a wet crunch. He dipped down and bit the neck hard, covering the skin with his lips and drinking while it was still warm. As was the frenzy each time, his eyes closed in a mockery of pleasure, more akin to the suckling of a baby on the breast. The Count guzzled at the jugular like an infant at the teat. He would not be brought out of this stupor, except for fresh blood. When the corpse was a shrivelled husk, he gathered up the other bodies and dumped them all in the dense undergrowth that separated the park from the river.

The girl was slumped against the tree, semi-conscious and whimpering in what could be both pain and fear. He too felt mixed sensations – both new to him. He was slightly sickened to see the matted gore and blood in her soft, downy hair. More strangely, he was relieved that she didn't see that previous display.

It was as though she'd gone deaf – the only sense working was her sight – and even that was dim in the dark. She saw dark hair surrounding a white, pale face, and black eyes with flecks of red that glowed like embers, or a sunset. She assumed it was the streetlight reflecting the glow of the red plastic slide. She was terrified.

The Count leaned down and sniffed her animalistically and she whimpered again. Was it poisoned? There was something off about her blood. Before she spoke, he knew.

'Don't hurt me… Baby.'

Her hands cradled her abdomen, but pointlessly. The scent he was picking up was life and death coinciding. Those men, he bet, intended on inflicting an abortion, and had done just that.

His bloodlust was momentarily rendered obsolete to his disgust. The blood seeping into her pants made him feel a brief pang of pleasure and anger for those three male breathers he had killed. The blood in his mouth was cold, and tasted sour.

What about this one? If he simply dumped her with the others, the breathers would assume the same assailant had done this monstrous act. He was cruel, and maintained his carnal thirst for blood. But as far as language and identity went, he could not put 'monster' to his name. It was therefore the Count's pride rather than pity or kindness that caused him to lift the immobile bofy of the young woman up into his arms, and carry her back up through the woods by the river to the castle.


	2. Part Two

Part Two

The first thing she felt (when she realised she was alive and therefore could feel) was a stabbing, throbbing agony in her shoulder. It must have been dislocated and recently (and poorly) relocated, for all the pain in her muscles, ribs abdomen and chest paled in comparison. And there was a cold hand on that shoulder, making the throbbing lessen and the joint ache, delicately prodding with long, slender fingertips. She opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was the bed head of the massive four poster, the wooden frame carved with dragons and symbols unknown to her. Rich, wine red and chestnut brown tapestries with royal blue and rugs adorned the walls and ceiling, giving the feel of warmth that was absent from the air in the room. 'Where am I…? What… happened?'

Her gaze travelled down to the man, who was gently letting his hands slip from her arm as she spoke, placing it carefully under the warm blankets. Who the bloody hell was this guy? And why was she wrapped in what appeared to be very expensive Egyptian linen and furs instead of in a hospital? Donny and his thugs trying to get rid of the kid was bad enough, but now what? Was this the creepy guy who lived in that castle on the hill? Oh great, he's probably a serial killer. Way to be kicked while you're down…

Kicked. Oh no, the kid!

She gaped like a fish in realisation, but her throat was too dry to speak.

'Those… men,' he replied silkily, pausing as he searched for the right word, 'attacked you. And I punished them.' She was vaguely aware of his cold hands pushing her back to the pillow a few times, his pale face impassive and almost… disgusted? Her head throbbed, her sinus was blocked, and she shivered as his hands restrained her.

Mixed in with her grief like a black tint in paint was, surprisingly, fear. He offered no sympathy, merely staring at her with his blue eyes. Though crystalline and beautiful, they were also deceptive, as though they were not meant to be blue at all. His hair, black and shiny, looked as though it had not grown an inch in years, though that was not possible, because it was down around his collar. And beside his appearance… why wasn't she in the hospital? Surely… she had been crying for such a long time, longer than it would take an ambulance to get up to the castle. She realised, looking at the walls behind him, that it was the castle up on the hill. And the man, staring down at her, must be its long-time tenant.

Suddenly, he smiled, as though he had the realisation at the same time as she. His arms were still holding her down, though it had been a full minute since she had stopped struggling. Her shoulder hurt so much, almost stung, and his grip tightened around her arms just as she lifted her head to see it. It was like being encased in concrete.

'What is your name?' He asked unexpectedly.

'My… name?' Her head was hazy, as though she were about to pass out. Her sinus remained swollen, but now it was difficult to breathe through her mouth.

'Helena.' She struggled to breathe.

'Helena.' Perfect, he mused. ' I can take the pain in your shoulder away. And in your abdomen. And your mind… Yes, I can see it there. Funny, how we think we do not want our children, and then when they are gone we realise – we need them.' His eyes bore into hers, and she did not realise that they were glowing yellow. In fact, she barely registered what he was saying. The logical part of her mind assumed that he was going to attack her like the others… yet he had _saved _her from the others. No, she wasn't in any mortal danger. Or perhaps it had passed…

'Imagine,' the beautiful, raven-haired man continued, 'if the only evil acts you committed were out of compulsion, and perhaps every now and then, you did a little good, too? Would you want that? What if you didn't have a choice?'

Shehad a feeling that 'you' was not simply directed at her, and yet it still was _about _her.

'You… did what you had to do for me.'

He laughed, with his mouth clamped tightly shut. 'You have no idea.' His breath was on her face as he spoke, yet she felt no fear in realising how close he had gotten. In fact, the only thing she felt or that seemed to matter was the pain in her shoulder. She had _almost _forgotten about Donny and the baby.

'Would you want it?' He whispered into her face.

'Yes.' It was like someone else had control of her body, someone strong who felt no pain. She liked them.

'You have no choice.'

'I know,' her almost bloodless mouth replied automatically.

She knew the pain in her shoulder was a bite before he removed the bedclothes, and knew what she had to do before he pierced his own wrist and lifted it to her mouth. His mouth was covered in his own, dark blood and his pupils had expanded to cover those beautiful eyes, though this way he was more attractive.

He watched the pathetic, dying creature in amazement as she latched on to his arm and her soft mouth suckled on his torn open wrist like a baby on the breast. The newborn was still weak as he carried her into the crypt. The eyes, which had been a dull green, were now jet black as his, and her hair and skin glowed in the fading moonlight. He pulled her down above him onto his bare chest and covered them in his silk nightclothes, his ringed fingers caressing the back of her neck.

Holding onto his entire person, blood dripping from her mouth as she stared up at him was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Apart from the sunset. Oh, he could not wait to show her that.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Please review. I had fun writing this.


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